3 Years

When I got the letter through the door, it struck me how once this very small intrusion would have made my heart stop. I would probably feel sick, be filled with trepidation and probably just let my mum open it. Then that would cushion the blow.

Nearly 7 years post-diagnosis, I'm a little calmer about those formal envelopes that follow me into my home a few times a year, taking the approach that there's nothing to deal with until the letter is completely read. On the letter; after another annual MRI, 3 years after my infusion treatment (Lemtrada), there's been no worsening in my lesions and no new ones. And I just thank God.

The optimist in me wants to jump up and down, and bounce off the ceiling cheering. The realist in me tells me this was really lucky and it's a miracle and this will change one day, that this is temporary. I'm working to sit somewhere between these two voices; being grateful and working to keep myself well.

Stress levels are the main reason I was shocked at my result. It astounds me that I haven't relapsed in the last 3 years. With multiple weddings, my own included, new jobs, further education and learning, and just life in general, I truly believed something somewhere would have deteriorated with the levels of anxiety I can carry. And it's amazing because apparently I'm happy to rock the anxiety gig for weeks.

Coronavirus threw its own challenges into the mix. The uncertainty, the infuriating politics and learning new social rules were one thing. Then having the added pressure of being confined to a small space not knowing when you would see the outside world again, the shit storm inside me was smashing up it's own collateral damage. There were days when all I would do was cry, have sleepless nights and visions of the death toll with fear for my friends on the frontline. I had symptomatic flare ups, tingling hands and numb feet, blurring visuals. And I'm here, I'm here with not further damage to my brain. Tell me it's not a miracle.

I made myself dress, and shower. I even wore clothes. Like actual clothes, and kept PJ's for the nights. Everyday was a battle and I by no means had it hard compared to so many others at all. Really, I had it so very easy really, and this situation has hit the whole world hard.

Lessons learnt here (no one has to take note, just run through my thought process with me here):

- Just do you, God knows everyone else is. Set your boundary, respect yourself and hold it. Whether that's in our new socially distant environment or simply dividing who you do and don't want to talk to. It's ok.

- Be so damn grateful. Who said today's gift and privilege would be for you tomorrow?

- Be kind. To yourself, to others. Pain is a spectrum, in different shades. But pain is pain no matter who you are.

- Quiet and stillness teach us something. They teach us to hear what is in our mind and what our body is telling us. It might not feel nice, but maybe we've spent an awfully long time not listening. Listen, process, do/be.

- Health is worth more than anything. I've said it before and I'll say it again. It's a shame it took a world pandemic to learn this one, and maybe we haven't really learnt (yes, this is aimed at the mass beach and pub goers, not sorry. And the government). If we don't consider these things first, nothing else can function. Maybe in years to come, this can be our priority over capitalism! I joke, this is unlikely to happen, but I can hope.

A little cynical and mostly tongue-in-cheek for this one, but maybe it's not all about things being cute and fun and aesthetically pleasing all the time. It's been a messy year,   and historical for many of us, but here is in an opportunity to learn; nothing is a given and without wellbeing and each other, humans cannot survive.

Dramatic, but until next time!